A Sorta Fairy Tale
by kataract52
Summary: OC. Ever wonder what it would be like to grow up in the Guild? It's no fairy tale. Rated for violence.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Guilds or most of the Boudreauxs – they belong to Marvel. I make no profit from this piece of fiction.

**Author's Notes:** This is another part in my 'Honor Saga', although you don't need to have read that to understand this one. It's basically the daughter of Remy and Bella Donna reflecting on the first four years of her life. I really wanted to flesh out the Guilds as they appear in the comics. I know Honor and her family comes across as a little cultish, but that's what I was going for. Rated for violence.

**A Sorta Fairy Tale**

I am an Assassin.

Born into the ancient Guild, my blood is sacred. Many may join, but few are born.

After suffering her last trimester through the entire summer, my mother gave birth to her first child on September 19, 1990. She was five months short of nineteen, and married to a man she hadn't seen or heard from since their wedding day. Her own mother had vanished into an apartment with a whiskey bottle after her husband's death: leaving my mother and uncle in the care of their paternal grandparents. Those grandparents were now ailing, and the dirt on Oncle Julien's grave was still soft.

Obviously, Momma's life was less than perfect, but she wanted it to be perfect now. She would _make_ it perfect for me.

Her ideas went beyond putting a new coat of paint on my nursery walls or opening a trust, like most parents. She took out a loan from the bank and started her own business. It was hard work, but an honest living. She used her father's friends, grandfather's connections and Guild associates to build a fortress around me. She even sent a man to college so that – one day – he would be my school teacher.

Until I was nine, I thought I was a **true** princess because I had so many adults bending to my will. I was much loved and very, very spoiled.

As befits a princess, my house had formerly been a plantation. The four of us – my mother, her grandparents and I – lived on the historical River Road in New Orleans. Unlike many other Southern plantations, which fall into disrepair, ours retained its former glory. The red brick driveway was replaced as often as the roof; the wood floors changed with every wedding. My mother had a taste for velvet and Carolina green, which echoed in the furniture and curtains.

The house itself was blue with black shutters that actually closed. Before my mother's grandfather, the house had been white. He colored it, and it would never be white again.

The old slave house became a greenhouse, and most of the property was lost after the Civil War. I use to walk that land with my mother's grandfather. He would tell me about General Sherman – the Yankee general who killed many of my ancestors and freed many others. He told me about General Lee – a military genius with the unfortunate fate of failure. He taught me how to date the giant oak trees on our land, and how to love the badlands we called home.

Before I could read or write, I could recite my family's history like a favorite fairy tale.

I knew we lived in France before it was called that… and we lived in the Americas before it was named… and we lived in western Africa, Canada and Spain. Actually, I could trace my blood to every country _except_ for Russia and China. Knowing your family tree is an invaluable asset in the Guild because you might find yourself in a strange city, needing some major help. All you need do is find a Guild member and compare charts until you find a common ancestor. Then you are kin, and their favor is required.

Two hundred and fifty years before my birth, Jean-Baptiste Boudreaux came to the New World to pillage and rape. When he set eyes on the future New Orleans, he said: "I will call this land home."

His destiny was ripe with challenges. He lost both brothers during the Spanish occupation of Louisiana, and a son to the revolt that followed. But the bayou called to him. He held fast with a fierceness I could hardly imagine.

All of my ancestors loved this land. When the natives were forced west, my forefathers fled to the swamps. In Antebellum, my African kin escaped the bonds of slavery. They could have fled north of the Mason-Dixon Line and been freemen, but they stayed. This land was their home, and no _law_ would take it away. Two and a half centuries of destiny had me bound to black waters and Spanish moss and humid summers.

My mother's grandmother was Vivien Boudreaux. She was a born Assassin, just like me. In her youth, she had the unbroken spirit of a stallion. No one could tame her. Among her many vices, she liked to venture to the poor side of town to have her fortune read by illiterate blacks. It was a dangerous situation for everyone involved. In those days, mob lynchings weren't out of practice, and voodoo wasn't a game. Everyone warned her to stay home where she was safe, and they were right. The crazy woman who read cards placed a curse on my great-grandmother.

Naturally, her family responded as Assassins would. Diplomacy was not an option. For all their violence, the curse remained, and the voodoo witch fought back. She raised dead Assassins from the grave, and used their unholy bodies to torment and attack their loved ones. This weapon was particularly useful. In my family, blood is sacred. Cold, stagnate blood is practically divine.

It took the help of an outsider to rescue my great-grandmother and her kinsmen. The voodoo witch had a brother named Marius. He had served in World War II, and was a natural with weapons. Killing didn't bother him.

Marius was a colored man with no prospects. At thirty, he could barely write his own name. He had no labor skills or education. His only talents were killing and telling war stories. Because of his strange snow-white hair and blue eyes, he garnered the nickname "Old Man" Marius.

The Old Man had warned Vivien to stay away. Pretty white girl was only going to find trouble on his side of town. But if she had listened, I wouldn't be alive today…

After his sister started playing zombie puppet-master, the Old Man loaded all his friends and weapons into a rickety pick-up truck. Armed with a shot gun and Colt revolver, he laid the dead back in their graves. (The trick, he told me, was that the dead needed to be decapitated.) Then he burned the voodoo doll binding Vivien, and imprisoned his sister in her hut. She remained a prisoner for the rest of her life. Her only visitor was the brother who spared her life, and she eventually surrendered to madness.

For his troubles, the Old Man was made patriarch of the Assassins. No one had ever been _welcomed_ as leader: not in three centuries!

His coronation was as big as Marti Gras! Blacks, whites, Assassins and saints all gathered on the poor side of town and danced barefoot into the next day. The Old Man taught Vivien how to boogie woogie; she taught him how to _baiser_. For the rest of her life, she would recall that night as the best night of her life.

Eventually, they married and raised five children, seven grandchildren and one great-grandchild. The Old Man was thirty when he married a wealthy, seventeen-year-old white girl. Perhaps this was acceptable out West or up North, but the scandal of it lingered forever in Louisiana. Momma said she could remember people burning crosses on our lawn, and if not for the protection of the Assassins Guild, they probably would've killed the Old Man. But the person most outraged was Marius' sister.

I believe she left some enduring black magic on Vivien, cursing my entire family for their matrimony. Although Vivien's marriage lived until her death, all of her children would be divorced or widowed before thirty. Her grandchildren followed suit: most of them dead before the fateful age. Somehow she endured all of this great tragedy. Towards the dusk of her life, she discovered her husband had fathered a child out of wedlock. This single event broke her wild spirit. She and the Old Man remained married only in title. They moved into separate bedrooms, only speaking when the topic pertained to my mother or me.

I was just a toddler, and oblivious to things like _grudges_. I had a very happy childhood, blessed with all the freedom and gifts a child could want. I had no playmates, but my mother was very young then. She could run and climb trees with me. Together, we would swim in the black water or pull bugs from the ground or find shapes in the clouds. I wanted nothing more than her continuous, undivided attention. Nothing hurt more than losing her to her work.

Shortly after my second birthday, my Grammy became bedridden. In the excitement of a pending Christmas, I sometimes forgot her state.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, she was dying. She requested that her life not extend once she could no longer read her Holy Bible. On December nineteenth, she could no longer lift the onion-peel thin paper. It was with great conviction that she summoned a priest. The Old Man gathered his remaining children and grandchildren.

I remember we all kissed her and told her we loved her. Everyone was crying, but I didn't understand.

Grammy took my tiny, fat hands in her cold, bony ones and blessed me. "You gonna have a hard life… Good Lawd puts us tru' fire t' make us strong. You gonna have a good life… Good Lawd don't make us suffer in vain. You gonna be de hope and salvation a' dis godforsaken family. You remember dis… When your day comes, and you lyin' here, only one thought gonna bring you comfort… De Lawd had a plan for you, and you fulfilled it."

Everyone crossed themselves, and the priest began the Last Rites. After the final "Amen", but before I opened my eyes, a gun fired. I jumped right off my mother's lap in fright. Grammy's bloody brains splattered across her pillow. All her thoughts and memories and visions soaked into the linens. Her final words echoed in my mind, forever craved into my soul… God had a great plan for me. I would fulfill my destiny. God had a plan for me.

_I would fulfill my destiny._

The Old Man placed his Colt revolver on the nightstand and phoned the police. We waited for them on the porch, drinking sweat tea. What a ridiculous sight we must've been.

A dozen police cars arrived, lights flashing and sirens screaming. My family was cuffed and loaded in a van like a band of common criminals. I was taken from my mother, protesting and crying with all my might. She had tears in her eyes, too, but offered me no words of comfort. She said nothing at all. I remember the horrible people with Child Services wanted to place me in foster home, but a stranger stepped forward as my grandfather.

He was a large, frightful man, but he held me tenderly and told me not to worry. Momma would be back before supper.

He was right.

Only the Old Man went to trial, but never served time. No Southern jury would condemn a seventy-five year-old man for the mercy killing of his wife. I was in the court when he took the stand, and the whole room wept as my family had.

Two and half years later, the Old Man joined his wife in eternity. His death was much less dramatic: he passed away in his sleep. Momma knew he didn't have long on this earth, and had said her good-byes. I felt betrayed because I never had the chance to bid _adieu_ to my friend and mentor. I don't know what more I could've said, but I was still angry.

Everyone in town attended his funeral. His final mass was held at the largest cathedral in the city, and there _still_ wasn't enough room. Anyone who didn't show up early enough got pushed to the back and sides, where they stood silently. At the gravesite, I had expected to see a coffin like I had at Grammy's burial. She was buried in a pretty purple box because that was her favorite color. But I never saw the Old Man's coffin for all the flowers piled over it. He was buried next to his wife and my grandfather, Marius Jr., and my Oncle Julien.

"See how loved he was," my mother told me with tears in her eyes.

Then every person in the world came to shake my mother's hand and kiss her check. They would say things like: "He's at peace now" or "I know you girls were his pride". Momma would thank them and stroke my hair. Everyone was extraordinarily generous with us that day. Even Mercy, who _hated_ Momma, stayed near her, spoke sweetly, and held her hand.

My mother's mother, Grandmother Boudreaux, showed up drunk and kicked over a flower vase. She disappeared shortly after that; no doubt, forcefully escorted out. This is my earliest memory of her.

Only one other guest stands out in my memory that day: the frightful man who kept me after my mother's arrest. He was tall and burly with a stern face and dark hair.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Belle," he said with a tenderness I didn't see. "Marius and I had our differences, but he was de greatest man I've ever known. Is dis her? Where does de time go?" He smiled at me. "My name is Jean-Luc LeBeau, _petite_. I am patriarch a' de Thieves Guild."

"LeBeau?" I dared to speak. "Like me?"

"Dis man ain't _nuttin'_ like you," my mother answered sharply. "Dis man de reason you ain't got a Papa."

The man bowed his head in shame and slinked away.

A burning, powerful hatred rushed through my little body. I had never known such rage as I knew that moment. If my hands were larger and stronger, I would have strangled him right there. I swore one day I would cut him down. I imagined all the ways I would kill him, and that's how I knew I was an Assassin.

With the Old Man gone, my mother was a different woman. She aged many years in few days. She saw enemies in every shadow.

One day, I had the rare privilege of going to the park. My mother's best friend, a giant black man nick-named Gris-Gris, was my body guard that day. He had been a close confidant of the Old Man, and one of the few people my mother trusted. Gris-Gris brought his eleven-year-old niece with us. Although she was much older, she was very kind to me. I relished in my new playmate.

The three of us were ambushed in the park. Gris-Gris was killed first. Marie-Therese, my new friend, carried me towards the woods. She took a hit and shouted at me to run while she held them off.

"Run home!" She shouted, "RUN!"

Terrified, my little legs flew as fast as they could. I knew I could never out run my pursuers: five large men with weapons and a getaway van. Marie-Therese planned to hide out in the swamps, but I knew I would never find my way home. So I ran the path I knew – back towards my attackers, towards the city and my home. As I approached my would-be abductors, sweet Marie-Therese used the last of her magic to temporarily blind the men, saving my life. I left her bleeding on the grass.

I fled the park with dozens of other frightened children and parents. Some grown-ups had more children than they did arms, and no one spared a thought for me. I pounded the pavement for four blocks before reaching a crowded city street. My legs couldn't move another step, and the getaway van was rounding the corner.

Panicked, my red eyes searched for a safe harbor. The only bit of luck I had that day placed Jean-Luc on that street just when I needed him. I dug deep and ran to him, latching onto his hand like my last breath.

"Lost, _petite_?"

I spouted my situation in one long, bilingual sentence: "_Aidez-moi_-dos-bad-men-kill-my-Gris-Gris!"

He studied me, clearly not understanding.

I shook his hand and shouted: "_Dos men kill Gris-Gris!"_

He turned his eyes to the approaching van. In a flash, he pulled a gun from his blazer and fired six rounds. The weapon was as long as my arm, but hidden so well I'd never been aware of it. It made a loud _pow-pow-pow_ when shot and every bullet hit its mark. The first round landed between the driver's eyes, shattering the windshield and his brains. The second caught the passenger's shoulder. As the van veered quickly towards a light post, he fired three more into the windshield and one at the fuel line.

The people on the street ducked and ran and screamed, just like the people at the park. A hefty black woman swept me in her plump arms and we hid in a near-by alley. Once I felt safe, I wanted to know what was happening. I struggled against her big bosoms for a clear view.

The van wrapped around the light post and caught fire. One man had flown through the windshield and landed in a bloody heap on the sidewalk. Jean-Luc kicked him, but the man remained unresponsive. Another man lay on the hood: dead as well. The van door opened and I heard Jean-Luc's voice. A whinny voice responded, but I couldn't make out the words. A moment later, Jean-Luc pulled out a second gun from his sock and fired twice more.

I could hardly understand the events of that day. At that age, I could never understand the implications or consequences.

Luckily, Marie-Therese survived that day, but Gris-Gris was dead. I survived with the least amount of harm, but everyone was _most_ concerned for me. Before dinner time, our house was full of outraged friends, relatives and acquaintances. Even Marie-Therese, who was on crutches, sought retribution. It was like the Old Man's funeral all over again.

"All dese people here f' Gris-Gris?" I timidly asked Tante Mattie, the kind woman who hid with me in the alley.

"_Non_, cher. Dey here f' you."

"But t'ain't my funeral."

"Children sacred, even among us poor folk. Dis man who wanna hurt you, he gonna rue de day!"

I still didn't understand, but didn't ask any more questions. People came and went, but my mother remained in the house until nine. Then she left without a word. I knew things were serious when I wasn't told to prepare for bed. Bed time came and went, but the people stayed. Finally, a man was brought into the house. He was covered in other people's blood, and had clearly been drug through the mud and dirt. At his arrival, the mob turned murderous.

I stood on the staircase: out of trouble but still within sight.

The man was tall and thin, with a mop of filthy grey hair and a black beard. He looked around the room like a caged animal. Unbound, unchained, and watched by unarmed guards, this man was nonetheless our condemned prisoner.

My mother spoke in a booming, powerful voice: "Tonight de plague of Antiquity dies!"

The whole house thundered with joy.

"Too long you have lived at the edges of our table!" My mother added. "Stealing our crumbs and enjoying our protection! No more!"

"You expect me t' beg f'r mercy? You can't kill me," he hissed with a sly grin.

"You be 'mazed what you can live t'rough!" A spectator yelled.

"His disciples are slain!" My mother shouted to the crowd. "His captives, freed. Dis devil will never set eyes or hand on another child de rest a' his pitiful existence. Every part of your flesh dat threatens _m' tite fille_ belongs to _me_ now. I would've cut up at in your fortress, but a coward like you don't deserve to die at home." She turned to the staircase and said softly, "C'mere, _chere_."

With knocking knees, I slowly made my way through the crowd. They parted for me, everyone with a gentle smile and encouraging pat.

My mother kneeled, and I was frightened by the blood stains on her face, clothes and hair. I braved wiped some blood from her cheek, and remembered there was no one more beautiful or tender than my mother. She sweetly told me: "Dis how much we love you… All a' us. Ain't no one gonna scare you de rest a' your life, hear? You and me, we born killers. We don' always kill outta hate or greed. We kill outta love, too."

"Like Grammy," I said helpfully.

"Dat's right," she smiled with a sugary-sweet voice. "Momma's gonna take care a' dis pile a' pooh, but don't be frightened. I ain't hurtin' him outta hate. I gotta remind him how much de Guilds love our _bébés_."

There was a sort of community love and understanding in the air. I had known this feeling in church sometimes, but this instance was different. The house seemed possessed by an angry and loving spirit; one that was both the devil and the messiah. Looking back on it, I think we were all delirious with fear. But that night, the path was clear.

My mother took a rusted knife and tortured that devil nearly to death. A weaker man would have died, but this one was protected by black magic. True to her word, she cut off his thumbs, and then his genitals, and then his eyes, and finally his tongue. My family relished in his immortality. They burned his fingertips away so that he would never touch another child. They cut off his lips so that he could never kiss again. They poured acid on his skin so it would scar over and be numb. They forced him to drink salt water so that his organs would become as poisoned as his soul. The torture lasted all night.

Breakfast brought him relief. It was Sunday, but rather than attend Mass, we elected to praise the Good Lord from my mother's house. The Bible declares: "Wherever two are gathered together in my name, I am there". So we gave glory to God while a pedophile lay in a bloody heap in the other room. After service, the world felt clean and new. Our beliefs had been re-enforced, and our consciousness's cleared.

The man was tied to the back of a truck and dug down the road. For all I knew, he might've been thrown in the swamps for the gators and returned kindly to his home. As he left, my family spit and kicked dirt. A semi-hysterical feeling filled the air.

"Sorry to be rushin' ya'll off," my mother said, "But de _bébé_ is tired somethin' awful."

Everyone kissed and left joyously, as through leaving a wedding. We acted as though that terrible night never happened, but I couldn't forget. I witnessed every terrible act and heard every desperate scream. I kept remembering: "They love me, they love me, they love me". And one day, I would repay my mother's love in bloodshed. For an Assassin, there is no greater act of love.


End file.
